Still the One
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: Or #38 if you prefer. Set after S4, Lucien and Jean are at stalemate. Can Jean change that, and so change everything? I wanted this to be T, but it's not, it's M. Sorry not sorry.


As he climbed the stairs his heart lifted at the memory; the sound of music on the wireless drifting from Jean's room, her bedroom door standing ajar, and as he rounded the corner, a glimpse of her sitting on the bed reading a book.

That evening three years ago had led to him asking her to stay, to help him, to be part of his messy life. And where had that taken them? Through fear and joy, grief and misery, finally to acceptance and the bruised and battered remnants of their love.

He cleared his throat and Jean glanced up at him, a gentle smile on her face. He was sure she had heard him coming, but she chose to wait for him to make the first move.

"May I come in?" he asked tentatively. She nodded.

"Did you find your supper? I could heat it up for you." He shook his head, then Jean leaned over to turn down the radio and she gestured towards the stool by the dresser. A waft of her scent reached him, tantalising him. He loved her more than she could know.

Lucien sat, then looked around him. Outwardly, very little had changed in three years. The room was still the most feminine place in the house: soft pink walls, perfume bottles and make up on the dresser, and a pair of stockings draped over its mirror. The house might be his, but this was her territory, and mysterious to him.

His gaze eventually settled on Jean, who was giving him a half smile, apparently quite aware of his thoughts. She sat on the bed with her legs tucked up under a blanket, and her thumb keeping the place in her book, which was now closed on the bedspread beside her.

Perhaps he was an unwelcome interruption, and she was just keen to get back to her book.

Lucien felt uncharacteristically nervous. He also felt summoned; he had been sure that the music was meant to draw him upstairs to her, but now he didn't know why, and perhaps he was wrong. At the moment he always seemed to be wrong.

Jean folded the blanket and stood up, taking a single step to the window. He noticed she was wearing no stockings and took a moment to appreciate the view.

"I'll miss this room," she said quietly.

He came and stood behind her at the window, his hands settling gently, tentatively, on her hips.

"There might be other compensations in my room," he replied. Jean rolled her eyes; he could see them, and her wry smile, in the reflection in the dark glass.

Their engagement had been a long one, and the divorce more painful than he had expected. Through all that, Jean had held him at a distance, not just fending off his hands, but also his thoughts, and worse still, any mention of a wedding date.

She had filled his ears with talk about patients and cooking, housework and cases. In the evenings her hands were busy knitting, and he cherished the one concession she made - a kiss goodnight - but a chaste one that always left him heartsore for what he had done to her. So much damage he didn't know how to repair.

He crossed his hands over her waist and gently rested his chin on her shoulder, nuzzling against her neck. To his surprise she didn't wriggle away but softened against him.

His hand brushed against his mother's ring on her hand; that had been a mistake, he now thought, and one he meant to put right. He rubbed his thumb over the diamonds more firmly but it was no good, it would always remind him of that awful evening. He marvelled to himself that Jean managed to wear it.

"I'm sorry, Lucien." Her body pressed against him still.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry I've pushed you away."

She turned round in his arms, pushing her hip against his groin, and pulled off his tie. He raised an eyebrow but couldn't keep up the pretence of disapproval. Jean undid the top two buttons on his shirt, shooting him brief looks, asking permission he could not hope to withhold.

Then she laced her fingers behind his neck and licked her lips, unconsciously.

He expected a simple kiss, but Jean was full of surprises. The gentlest, slightest kiss on his lips was followed by a deeper one, with an edge of desperation he hadn't expected. Then she rested her forehead against his neck while her lips worked the skin on his collarbone, tasting the salty sweat and breathing quickly.

Lucien ran his fingers into her hair, holding her against him and clawing at her curls. He couldn't reach her face or neck with his lips, making do instead with kissing her hair and inhaling her scent, drawing her smell into him. He thought he had known her particular scent, but there was a note of arousal now that he had missed before, and he wanted to fix it in his mind, so he could recall it when this was over, when she changed her mind and rejected him again.

Jean meanwhile was contemplating his response, which was making its presence felt against her belly. She lifted her head to kiss him again, and quickly found all her focus was on his tongue moving against her lip and then inside her mouth, with a hint of whisky, and how he nipped at her lip with his teeth.

Her stomach flipped sickeningly, unfamiliarly, and she lurched against him, pushing him further towards the bed.

With her next half step forward he fell backwards, catching himself on the bed and dragging her down on top of him. She suddenly laughed, rolling off him and lying next to him on her narrow bed, one arm sprawled across his chest.

Lucien lay still, eyes closed, awaiting her next move. Arousal flooded over him just at the thought of lying next to her. He was out of his depth, an unfamiliar feeling, but he knew that this moment was pivotal. Jean would decide, and that would be that.

Her cool fingers stroked under the edge of his shirt, then tried to unbutton it. She made tiny noises of frustration, which stopped only when his fingers pushed hers aside and undid the shirt. He sighed in relief as she kissed his cheek, feeling her ruffle his beard with her nose. When her hands drifted to his belt and trouser buttons, he took charge, turning quickly over her and pinning her down, one hand on her breast, the other palm cradling her head.

Then he paused for a moment, and spoke.

"Is this what you want, Jean? All of it?"

She opened her eyes and grinned, nodding.

"All of you, anyway."

He needed no further encouragement, and had her undressed to her slip and underwear in moments. If Jean was surprised by this turn of speed she didn't comment. He may have been out of practice but some skills were never lost.

Jean went more slowly, peeling off his shirt and singlet, glimpsing the scars on his back she had always suspected he must have, but not pausing for a closer look. That could wait for another time.

She ran her hands flat over his chest and arms, feeling and learning the muscles she had seen only through his shirt before, and stroking his skin, smoother than she expected, and darker than hers. She lay half on his chest, her warm breath tickling his shoulder.

Lucien paused. So far he had been overtaken by events, and had been rushing on, half fearful she would change her mind and stop him. But now he took a step back in his mind. Jean was his, and she wanted him. He should savour this. Get it right.

He pushed himself up to sitting, making the whole bed shudder, then half fell out of bed in his attempt to stand. Grabbing Jean's hand he pulled her up too, ignoring her protests, and he pulled back the covers roughly, tossing the bedspread on to the floor. Her book slid down with a thud.

Before Jean could gather her thoughts he had toed off his shoes and was making progress in undressing completely. She started to giggle, a girlish sound he had hardly ever heard from her.

"Jean,...it hardly gives a man confidence..." He glanced at her sidelong. More slowly she was pulling off her slip.

"You never lack confidence," she replied, leaning over and kissing him, once quickly, then on second thoughts more slowly, deepening the connection and groaning quietly.

Lucien wrapped both arms around her, pulling her against him from chest to knee, but still not close enough to satisfy them. Then he pushed her gently down to sit on the edge of the bed while he crouched next to her.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said, and ran from the room, leaving Jean suddenly empty-handed and distinctly cold. Hearing him taking the stairs two at a time, and then the sound of clattering and mumbling in the surgery, she rolled her eyes as she realised what he was doing.

By the time he reappeared, triumphant in his dressing gown, Jean had undressed, got into bed and pulled the covers up high. His gown really wasn't hiding much, but some remnant of propriety had obviously made him take a detour to his bedroom.

He lifted up the sheet and blankets, taking a peep at Jean naked, and he made a sound in his throat which brought tears to her eyes. Could it really be that this was all they needed to mend each other?

Then as he dropped his robe on the floor she burst out laughing. He was wearing nothing but a smile and a condom.

"You put it on downstairs?" she gasped, trying to smother her giggles.

He didn't reply, thinking this was no time for banter, but instead just looked at her longingly. There was a lump in his throat as he stared, in disbelief that she was really there.

He quickly slipped under the covers and Jean turned to him.

Jean had expected urgency, even haste, but he explored her slowly, mapping previously unknown territory, fingers and mouth delicate and tender. His tongue slid across her breast, then he suckled lightly on her nipple, listening for her response, smiling against her as she whimpered almost silently in her throat. Encouraged, he buried his face between her breasts, rubbing with his beard even though he knew he would mark her, then he moved back to her lips, tasting her sweetness.

His weight on her was exciting yet reassuring, but all she could reach was his back, where her fingertips followed the maze of scars. The ridges and dips pulled at her heart. A tear slipped down into her hair which Lucien kissed away.

"Am I hurting you?" he murmured.

"No...these..." she stroked his back and he nodded. Caught between her legs, skin sheened and muscles trembling, the Japanese were a world away, irrelevant; he was a different man now, because of her.

Sliding his fingers into the dark curls between her thighs, he circled with his thumb, gently feeling his way, watching her eyes fall closed as she arched towards him. For a moment he forgot his own increasing need and delighted in the sight of his Jean, free and blissful.

She rolled her hips against him, searching for more contact, more of him, and began to call out his name. She couldn't find any other words to ask for what she needed.

Lucien slipped just inside her, holding himself taut above her, waiting for control. Jean quivered beautifully under him, then as he pushed slowly in, her low moan went higher, pleasure and pain mixed.

He hesitated, but when she squeezed around him, experimentally, testing the sensation, he groaned her name and speeded up. He thrust deeper and harder, now without restraint, and was almost surprised by Jean suddenly breaking in his arms, crying out, first rigid, then collapsing, and tightening around him again and again.

The sob of joy she let out afterwards was what defeated him. He fell awkwardly onto her, open mouthed against her shoulder, unwilling to let the moment go, but all strength gone at last. She patted the back of his neck weakly before her hand drifted back to the bed.

They lay still, sated and still joined, murmuring nonsense, till Lucien remembered the condom, and unwillingly returned to the practical. He eased out of bed and to the bathroom, while Jean stretched out, wriggling across the bed and pulling the tangled blankets back up.

Even as her limbs still tingled she knew she would be sore in the morning. Out of practice, she admitted to herself, but she still couldn't help grinning, and even more so when he returned to bed.

Lucien cuddled up to her, curving himself against her back and resisting warming his chilled feet on her, but he found his hand rested perfectly on her breast. He breathed in her scent on the pillow and the lingering smell of sex and contentment.

"We'd be more comfortable downstairs in my bed," he grumbled, but good-naturedly.

"No, that's for when we're married." She didn't elaborate, but she had wanted this to be on her terms, on her ground.

He nuzzled in her hair drowsily. "Let's make it soon, then, Jean." His last thought was that he needed to buy a new engagement ring tomorrow.

She murmured agreement, but he was already asleep.


End file.
